


Sons of Winter and Stars

by Louhetar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Art, Battle of Winterfell, Canon Divergence - Battle of Winterfell | Final Battle Against the White Walkers, Canon was fuckery So I fixed, Coming Out, Dorks in Love, Embedded Images, Fanart, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon and Tormund centric, Jon is a Disaster Gay, Jonmund, M/M, No Jon/Ygritte, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Pol!Jon, Politics, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Pre-Relationship, Protective Tormund Giantsbane, Rating will change, Sansa is a good sister, Smut, Warnings May Change, White Walkers, Wildlings - Freeform, no J0nerys, not for Danny fans, smut in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21812173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louhetar/pseuds/Louhetar
Summary: Jon sighs, his heart heavy. “How long do we have?” he finally asks.Tormund measures him with a look, no doubt noticing how much distress he’s in. “Before the sun comes up tomorrow,” the giant man finally says.Jon can feel his mouth going dry. He looks at his friend intently and sees the sadness in the man’s eyes.Neither of them believes they will live through tomorrow, he realises.Season S8 fix it of sorts.
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 60
Kudos: 265





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking of writing this for months. This fic is sort of an S8 fix it, but it's centred around Jon and Tormund so don't @ me that your ship isn't here hjghjghjgh. Most of it will be happening post canon though.  
> Art by me  
> Beta by Jennie_D
> 
> The title and lyrics from Sons of Winter and Stars by Wintersun.

_Behold the rain of stars – The awakening of darkened skies_  
_Falling from the dark – The symphony of dying lights_  
_Behold the rain of stars – The blazing fire came pouring down_  
_Falling from the dark – And life and death became unbound_

"Your mother was Lyanna Stark,"

Jon feels as if he got punched in his chest. 

"And your father… Your real father was Rhaegar Targaryen. You've never been a bastard," his friend continues shakily, but Jon can't breathe. He’s a… Targaryen? The air and the surrounding darkness of the crypt are pressing on him, kicking air from his lungs.

"You're Daemon Targaryen, true heir to the Iron Throne. And the sword at your hip never belonged to House Mormont. It’s Blackfyre, the Targaryen kings’ blade," Sam continues. Seeing his mortified expression, quickly adds "I'm sorry, I know it's a lot to take in."

Jon jerks, looking at the familiar direwolf pommel. A lot to take in? This must be a joke. Jon can feel a panic attack coming. Trying to slow down his breathing and to calm himself down, he croaks, "My father was the most honourable man I have ever met." He takes a deep breath to stop his hands from shaking "You're saying he lied to me my whole life," he almost shouts, his voice carrying in the ancient crypt. He feels as if the eyes of the figures of his ancestors focused on him at once.

"No."

Jon looks at his friend.

There is softness in Sam’s eyes.

"Your father… well, Ned Stark. He promised your mother he'd always protect you," Sam continues, desperation evident in his voice. "And he did. Robert would have murdered you if he knew. You're the true king, Daemon Targaryen, First of his Name, Protector of the Realm, all of it," his friend exclaims feverishly.

Jon still can’t breathe. He takes a few steps back, trying to calm his heart, beating so fast it might want to escape his chest. "No," he finally says.

Sam looks at him confused.

"My name is Jon Snow and I was chosen as the King in the North by my people, I don't care nor want to care whoever sits on the Iron Throne. Be it Daenerys, be it Cersei. The North is not part of the Seven Kingdom anymore,” he says sternly.

“Daenerys… she shouldn’t be the queen…”

Jon sighs. He realises now that the mother of dragons is his aunt, despite being younger than him. His memories bring him back to the ship going to King’s Landing. He remembers how the woman looked at him… a shiver runs through him.

“Sam…” he looks at his friend sadly. “The chance we can survive this is so low,” Jon looks across the crypt at generations of his ancestors. Despite Sam’s words… he feels nothing. He has no love for Targaryens, not when his grandfather got murdered by… his other grandfather it seems. All his life he longed to know who his mother was. And now? Now he actually wishes he never learned. 

“I don’t want to deal with it just now. Why are you telling me this now?”

Sam looks at him with surprise

“You’re a good ruler.”

“I never wanted this. I never wanted to be the Lord Commander and look what happened to me!”

Sam looks at him confused. Oh gods… he doesn’t know, does he?

“Jon, what do you mean?” The man asks softly, seeing his face.

He wants to bolt. But it’s Sam. Gods know what would have happened if he hadn’t sent him to the Citadel.

“I-” bile rises in his throat, the memories of cold, of darkness flood him once again.

Seeing his expression, Sam rushes to him and puts his hands on him. “Jon, are you alright? What’s wrong?”

Jon had thought that he’d gotten past this, so he flinches when tears flood his eyes. Trying to brush them away as discreetly as he can, he straightens. With a flat voice says “They killed me.”

The confusion on Sam’s face is palpable. “What... what do you mean, Jon?”

It’s been over 2 years since they last saw each other and just as long since he died.

“That night, the night after you left, they...” Jon squares his shoulders and forces his voice to be calm. ”Thorne and others, they stabbed me to death.”

“What are you talking about, Jon? It makes no sense, you’re alive and well,” Sam puts a hand on his shoulder trying to comfort him.

Without a word, Jon unties his tunic and undershirt. He can see the horror on his friend’s face when he sees the deep tracks carved with blades in his chest and abdomen. They no longer hurt, but the scars look ever open.

“How...?” his friend traces the one over his heart and Jon tries not to flinch.

“Stannis Baratheon’s Red Woman. She was a witch and I...I still don’t know how, but she brought me back,” Jon ties the tunic back, the cold of the crypts seeping into his bones.

“Who, who would have done that?” Sam’s face is mortified.

Jon laughs. It’s dry. Cold. Not a happy laugh. “Who do you think did it, Sam?”

Understanding sparks in Sam's eyes, the mortification on his face sinks into true horror.

"Thorne."

“And several others, including...including Olly.” He says, casting his eyes down. The hurt of betrayal is still strong.

“Oh Jon...” his friend brings him in a hug, which he can’t help but reciprocate.

Jon holds his friend for a long moment before letting go.

Without a word, he walks towards the stairs, too much on his mind. When he heard about the dead breaching the wall, the first thing he thought about was how he had sentenced his friend… no, his best friend to death. 

Jon's been trying not to think about it all day.

As he walks through the castle, he tries to quiet his mind. Ever since he earned about the Wall being breached, a fear struck his heart. He’d lost friends before… but he and Tormund have become such close friends over the years. Tormund always at his back, saving Jon's life more times than he can count.

The King in the North and the Wildlings chieftain. Who would have thought...

As he enters his chambers, Jon smiles fondly at the memory of countless times they drank together, laughed together. For the second time today, he’s close to tears.

Laying his head on a pillow, he wonders what would his friend say about his lineage. Knowing the Wildling, he’d just scoff at it.

Jon looks at his sword and unsheaths it slowly. The blade is long and dark, streaked with veins of lighter colour where the metal got folded countless times during the smithing. The blade doesn't look any different than the day he got it. The hilt doesn't match the blade in colour. And of course, the white direwolf head pommel, painted white with garnets for eyes.

Can it really be Blackfyre? He’s heard the stories. Who hasn't? Blackfyre was the sword of Aegon the Conqueror. Wielded by numerous Targaryen kings till it ended up in hands of Daemon Blackfyre, who rebelled against the crown. No one has seen the blade since the First Blackfyre Rebellion. The famous weapon was supposed to be a long and dark bastard sword, as opposed to the smaller and slimmer Dark Sister, the other of the two Targaryen swords.

He never really gave it any thought, so used to the light weight of the blade on his hip to question its origins. But now that Jon thinks about it, he’s never heard about Mormonts having an ancestral sword. How could one be just… given to him, a teenage boy? Unless... unless Maester Aemon had known. Jon slowly sheathes back the blade that may have conquered Westeros. And yet… he can’t imagine his sword as anything else than Longclaw. The blade feels like a part of him. Same as Ghost.

Jon can’t sleep for long hours that night. He hasn’t been getting enough sleep for years. He’s not sure if its the Red Witch’s magic that makes him being able to function, or if it’s his body simply adapting to the stress. He can’t remember the last time he slept well. Perhaps back in Winterfell, back when he was a naive child.

*

Jaime Lannister.

Now that’s the last person who he expected to see in Winterfell.

The man looks like a shadow of himself. Long are his golden locks, the man’s hair now grey with the stress caused by the years of battles. His sword is on his right side this time, next to the missing hand replaced with a gold prosthetic. 

He already knows that this won’t end well. His sister...no...cousin? He doesn’t want to think about it now. Sansa sits on his right, her face not able to read. But the mother of dragons sitting on his left can’t mask her face that well.

The crown on Jon’s head feels heavier than eve. He didn’t want one, but Sansa insisted he needs to wear it around Daenerys. It serves as a reminder that he has ruling power and Daenerys is simply a guest in the North, not their queen.

The thing is heavy, made of bronze and iron and shaped just like the crowns of the Kings of Winter of legends. An open circlet adorned with nine sharp thorn-like spikes. Jon doesn’t feel worthy of it. 

But right now he has most pressing matter Against the etiquette, it’s Daenerys who speaks instead of him.

“When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story about the man who murdered our father. Who stabbed him in the back and cut his throat. Who sat down on the Iron Throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floo-”

“Enough.” He's tempted to growl but Jon keeps his voice steady, measured. Daenerys still looks at him, face stunned. He just silenced a woman that can kill them all in seconds. But he’s wearing the heavy burden on his head for a reason.

“With all due respect, Queen Daenerys, this is not an audience with you You're our guest. Were we sitting in King’s Landing with you on the Iron Throne, you could decide about the life of this man. But as it is, we’re in the North and the right to make that decision belongs to me."

The Mother of Dragons hides her anger but doesn't say a word more.

The lords look at him with mixed expressions, some stunned, by all seem pleased. From a corner of his eye, Jon can see the tiniest smile rising a corner of Sansa's lips up. His sister is satisfied with his words. He hopes they won't regret them.

His eyes fall on the man in front of him.

“Ser Jaime,” Jon says slowly.

“Your Grace,” he can hear the tiniest traces of mockery in his voice, but he can see that the knight is impressed with his words. It would feel comforting, coming from the man he idolised as a child but as it is… he also caused them a lot of harm. 

The man coming here alone can mean only one thing. He got betrayed yet again. Just like Tormund had said, their trip beyond the Wall was useless. Jon tries with all his will for his face to remain expressionless.

“I would expect you to be with your sister, and her army, but I see you alone here, my lord. Could it be that your sister betrayed our treaty? Did she lie to us?" With a corner of his eye, he can see Lady Brienne shift among the lords

The man's eyes fall to the floor. "She lied to me as well." Jaime finally looks at him, "She never had any intention of sending her army north," the man scoffs and Jon really wants to sigh. Such a wasted opportunity.

The man continues, "She has Euron Greyjoy's fleet and twenty thousand fresh troops." Jon's eyebrows go high. Shit. "Golden Company from Essos bought and paid for. Even if we survive the dead, she has more than enough to destroy whoever survives," Jaime looks at him and Jon knows he needs to mask his expression very well now, panic in him rising. 

"We?" he looks at Daenerys, then back to Ser Jaime.

The man's eyes are still on her. "I promised to fight for the living. I intend to keep that promise."

Jon can admire that.

Then Tyrion Lannister steps forward. "Your Grace, I know my brother. He came here alone, knowing full well how he'd be received. Why would he do that if he weren't telling the truth?"

This time it's Sansa's turn to speak.

"Don't trust him." Jon looks at his sister, noting her stern face. "He tried to destroy our house and our family."

"Do you want me to apologize? I won't," the knight snarls, his voice daring and mocking. "We were at war. Everything I did, I did for my house and my family. I'd do it all again." Jaime finishes, looking at Sansa, instead of him.

"The things we do for love," a quiet voice comes from where his brother sits and for a split second fear strikes Lannister's handsome face, before again turning into a mask.

Jon finally speaks. "Why aren't you with your sister, with your family?" his eyebrow rises. The experience made him doubt Lannisters' words.

The man snickers. "This goes beyond loyalty. This is about the survival."

Jon looks at the man and is about to speak when he sees a commotion where the lords and ladies stand, awaiting his decision. Brienne of Tarth steps forward.

The woman stands tall in front of them. “Your Grace, if I may.”

Jon looks at Sansa who gives him the tiniest of nods, before moving his eyes back to the warrior in front of him. Brienne is the closest to what he can call Sansa’s knight and without her, his sister’s fate could have been much worse. “Go on,“ he finally says.

“I know Ser Jaime. He is a man of honour,” she starts and Jon tries not to raise his eyebrow in question. Lannisters and honour seem like opposites to him. However, he lets her continue.

“I was his captor once. But when we were both taken prisoner and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me. And lost his hand because of it,” Brienne continues, before looking at Sansa. “Without him, my lady, you would not be alive. He armed me, armoured me, and sent me to find you and bring you home because he'd sworn an oath to your mother.” 

Jon looks at Sansa and can see his sister in distress. The mention of her mother had struck something in Sansa. She'd always been cold to Jon, and he had no love for her. But she'd loved her children dearly. Sansa looks down, before saying softly “You vouch for him?”

Without a shadow of hesitation, the tall woman replies, “I do.”

“You would fight beside him?“

“I would.’

“I trust you with my life. If you trust him with yours, we should let him stay.” Sansa finally says and Brienne nods to her slowly, before moving back to where she was standing. If there is anyone whose advice Jon would listen to, it’s his sister.

After a moment Jon straightens up and says “My sister trusts you with her life and you did House Stark a lot of good. Thank you for your service.” Then he looks at the Lannister man, no doubt touched by Brienne speaking for him. “It’s the dead we’re fighting. We need every living woman and man we can get. You can stay.” 

Jon can see Tyrion Lannister, Daenerys’ Hand, exhale sharply, no doubt having feared for his older brother. 

Jaime Lannister nods slowly. Davos moves forward, carrying the man’s sword with care before handing it to him. The man accepts it with a short “Thank you, Your Grace.”

This time Jon felt as if ‘your grace’ held more honesty.

Jon gets up, announcing his decision as final. The others rise with him. He leaves but the Targaryen woman follows him. Jon slows down, knowing that otherwise, he’d show disrespect.

“This man murdered my father,” she finally says. Her advisors behind her, not quite sure what to do in this situation.

Jon can feel a headache rising. The crown on his head feeling heavier than ever.

“And your father, Your Grace, tortured and cruelly murdered both my grandfather and uncle for his own amusement. Every man and woman in The North remembers it,” he says looking at the woman. ‘He was my grandfather too’ Jon thinks bitterly.

Surprisingly, Daenerys nods at his words, her anger seems to flee. She nods without a word and turns away, walking in the direction of her quarters, her advisors with her. Tyrion sends him a soft look of thanks and Jon nods slightly, before going to his own as well. 

Or not really his own. Sansa insisted that he take her parents old quarters and Jon had agreed. But the spacious rooms feel too odd, too empty. He’d prefer his old room. As small as it was, it was all he had as a boy. But he is no longer a boy. The heavy crown on his head ever the reminder. or the hundredth time that day, Jon wished Tormund was at his side. The ginger man would joke often that the iron thing is impractical unless Jon wanted to headbutt someone with it.

Jon slumps in a chair for a moment. He’s never asked for this kind of responsibility. Castle Black was easier. There he only had no more than hundreds of men to command.

Command, not rule.

Here, he has to decide for hundred of thousands. The North is almost as big as all the other realms combined, including Dorne.

What kind of person would this kind of responsibility, he ponders, turning the sharp crown in his hands. 

‘We know no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark.’ said Lyanna Mormont two years ago. But is he? For 23 years of his life, he thought that Ned Stark was his father.

But even that was a lie.

Technically he’s always been half Stark… But by law, he should be a Targaryen. Jon flinches.

His hair is the deepest shade of black, completely different than Daenerys. His eyes grey like stones, instead of purple. He looks up at a mirror on one of the walls and can’t help but chuckle at his reflection, imagining his hair silver and eyes pale violet, like Daenerys'. 

He doesn’t want to rule people. He can command them, fight among them, but he doesn’t want...this. He wonders what will people think when they learn that they do have a Targaryen wearing the crown after all.

With a heavy heart and mind full of guilt and regret, Jon rises to visit the battlements, maybe help some men. Sitting won’t do him any good.

Jon slowly makes his way outside of the keep. Suddenly, a horn sounds throughout the yard. He picks up when the shouts of ‘riders!’ can be heard.

Jon rushes out to the sight of men in black getting off horses. Jon smiles for the first time this day when he sees a short man in a heavy cloak

“Lord Commander,” Jon says with a small smile.

“Your Grace,” answers Edd Tollett before hugging him closely. 

“I missed you, my friend” Jon finally says, letting go after a moment. 

Edd is about to answer but Jon feels something collide with him, making him lose his footing. He’s about to complain loudly when low laughter and a voice he thought he’d never hear again murmurs into his hair.

“My little Crow…”

Jon looks up and sees Tormund, holding his shoulders steadily. Then he moves quickly, pulling Jon into a tight hug. His throat constricts but finally, he manages a hoarse “I thought we’d lost you.”

The ginger winces at that but tries to mask it with a smile. “Almost” he finally says shaking his shoulders and letting go. Jon instantly misses the comforting weight. 

He looks up and sees Beric Dondarrion. The man was with Tormund in Eastwatch. Jon shakes the man’s hand, glad he made it as well. They need everyone they can get.

“How did you find each other?” he asks, measuring the three men with a look.

“We met up at the Last Hearth,” Edd answers with his eyes dropped to the ground. Oh no.

“The dead got there first,” Tormund says with a grim look. 

Jon looks at his friend, trying to control his voice. “The Umbers?”

“Fighting for the Night King now,” the emotionless voice of Beric supplies. “We had to travel around them to get here.” 

“Whoever's not here now is with them” adds Tormund, looking at him intently.

Jon sighs, his heart heavy. “How long do we have?” he finally asks.

Tormund measures him with a look, no doubt noticing how much distress he’s in. “Before the sun comes up tomorrow,” the giant man finally says.

Jon can feel his mouth going dry. He looks at his friend intently and sees the sadness in the man’s eyes. 

Neither of them believes they will live through tomorrow, he realises.

*

They’ve been planning for hours. Ever since the Night’s Watch and Tormund arrived. They decided Bran should be in the Godswood, with the Ironborn protecting him. The rest would be stationed in some proximity from the place, trying to bait the Night King. And perhaps with the help of Daenerys’ dragons, kill him. 

Right now Daenerys and Tyrion are fighting about his place during the battle. Tyrion isn’t Jon’s subject, so he can’t order him. For some reason, he feels like Daenerys’ intentions, though seeming logical, are mocking the smaller man.

A hoarse voice suddenly interrupts them.

“You want to put him where?” Jon looks at Tormund, the man having not said a single word through entire meeting. Now he looks at Daenerys. Jon isn’t surprised that his friend hasn’t used any honorifics towards the woman.

Daenerys looks at him surprised as if she just now noticed the ginger.

“In the crypts, where people who don’t fight will stay,” she says calmly.

But Tormund seems nothing like calm. he looks across the room wildly. “Have you lot lost your minds?” the ginger doesn’t address anyone in the room, but everyone looks at him.

“You want to put your dearest and most vulnerable people in a place with generations of dead Starks, while the fucking Night King raises the dead?!” Tormund gestures wildly and Jon gets struck with sudden fear. He’s right..! “They will all wet slaughtered and join his army if you do this!” By the faces of the people gathered, no one has thought about that. Some look almost embarrassed, including him, who actually saw the monster raise his fallen men.

“The first thing you should do is to actually seal the place, so none of them gets out. Do you want thousands of years old dead attacking us on top of everything else?” The wildling continues, ignoring their scared expressions.

“We will stay in the towers,” Sansa finally says. “Some are only reachable with ladders that can be pulled up.”

Jon nods at her. It’s not perfect, but better than what they could have sentenced innocent people to.

“The dragons should give us an edge in the field.” Davos finally breaks the silence. But Jon turns his head “If they're in the field, they're not protecting Bran. We need to be near him. Not too near, or the Night King won't come. But close enough to pursue him when he does.” He says slowly, looking at his brother.

“Dragonfire will stop him?” Arya asks. She masks it well, but he can hear a note of fear in his little sister’s voice. It pains him so much that he can’t protect his family better than this.

“I don't know. No one's ever tried.” Bran says in that slow melancholic voice of his.

Jon slumps his shoulders, feeling so tired.

“We're all going to die.” Tormund finally says. Jon looks at him sadly but the ginger gives him a small smile before saying. “But at least we die together.”

Jon wants to smile back, but he can't. He can see his friend giving him a concerned look. Finally, he looks around the gathered and says “Let’s get some rest, we’ll need it.”

People slowly start to move and Jon is conflicted. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, no doubt expecting him to go and talk with Daenerys. But it’s not the time. It still pains him so much.

Jon slowly closes his eyes, trying to calm his breathing.

It must have been a long moment because when he opens them, the room is empty.

Save for Tormund.

“What is it, Jon?” the giant man carefully asks. It’s not the concern in the man’s voice that has Jon’s attention, not fully. It’s the usage of his name. 

Tormund rarely ever addresses him by a name, usually calling him crow, or king crow half-jokingly, half mockingly.

“I spent enough time at your side, to know when you’re not alright. And I can tell it’s not us dying that has you so troubled.”

Jon looks at the man. Could he tell him? Only yesterday, he was thinking of what Tormund may say, sure the man was dead. If there is anyone Jon may trust with truth, it’s Tormund Giantsbane.

“Let me find some alcohol and let’s sit somewhere where there is fire, little crow,” the man says, and Jon smiles, letting the Wildling decide for him. He misses that feeling, more than some may think.

They slowly walk through the keep until they find themselves in Jon's quarters. Tormund is quiet the entire time, which is rare for the older man. The redhead is already starting the fire in the cold fireplace before Jon even managed to lock the door properly. Ever functional. He really missed the man.

The silence between them isn't awkward he notices. They’ve spent many such in Winterfell and before that in Castle Black.

Finally, having brought the flames to life, the ginger turns back to him. Despite himself, Jon likes how the sparks seem to dance reflected in the bigger man's eyes.

"What happened?" Tormund asks softly, sitting down on one of the chairs.

"What makes you think anything happened?" Jon asks back, sitting down. But he knows he can't fool his friend.

In confirmation, Tormund gives him a long look.

Jon sighs and finally takes his crown off. He holds it in his hands, turning it slowly and carefully touching each of the nine dagger-like spikes.

He looks up at his friend, and not for the first time admires how astute the man is. How could they not take that into consideration? If white walkers are will be so close to the castle, of course, they would raise whatever dead they can get. Tormund is far more intelligent than people give him credit for. The man doesn't need books or military terms to plan a battle. It's the experience that makes him dangerous. Or in their case, useful.

"I…" he starts but the words don't come. He takes a deep breath. "I learned who my mother was," Jon says quietly. "And learned that my father wasn't who I thought my whole life."

Tormund doesn't say anything, only watches him, silently urging him to continue. "I learned that my real father was Rhaegar Targaryen, Daenerys' older brother. And my mother was Lyanna Stark, someone I thought was my aunt. It would seem I've never been a Stark, I've been a Targaryen," he finally says, and his shoulders slump.

It takes some time for Tormund to respond. When he does, he hands Jon one of the wineskins he brought. "Do you know, little Crow, why the free folk doesn't have houses or last names?"

Jon takes a swing and almost lurches when the fermented alcohol burns his throat.

"It's because we don't just get a second name, we need to earn it," the man says calmly, before taking a swig from their shared skin. "Whoever your mother or father is, doesn't define you in the eyes of free men. Your father was the man who raised you, not who put seed in your mother," Tormund says shaking his shoulder lightly.

"I...I just don't know what to do, Tormund," Jon finally says, while setting the iron circlet aside on the table.

"Who says you need to do anything?"

He looks at the Wildling surprised, but Tormund continues, "Do you think your siblings would take you for anything less than your brother if you tell them?" There is a soft warmth in his friend's eyes and Jon gives it a thought.

He hasn't seen Arya for over eight years, and yet she ran for him to take her in his arms without a moment of hesitation.

"No," he finally says, smiling just a bit.

Tormund gives him a broad smile and it makes Jon feel warm, in a way that has nothing to do with the fire roaring beside them.

"It still doesn't solve the other issue," Jon murmurs, his face turning into a scowl again.

"Aye, by kneelers' customs you have the right to the spiky chair, right?"

Jon nods, feeling the bile rise again.

Tormund observes him.

"I… I don't want this. I don't want this kind of responsibility, Tormund," he says bitterly, looking again at the circlet on the table. "If I actually survive tomorrow's battle, I was thinking about abdicating the crown of the North.”

Tormund observes him intently, and once again Jon thinks how much people underestimate his friends' wits. "To the Dragon Queen?"

"No, to Sansa." Jon hasn't told about his plans to anyone yet, unsure of people's reactions. "She'd be a far better ruler and people love her, like they loved her father.

"Your father," Tormund adds taking a swing. Jon eyes the wineskin and the redhead hands it back to him. This time the burn is lighter and he drinks slower.

"I should tell them about this."

"You trust them right?"

Jon nods without hesitation.

"Don't tell the dragon queen," the cold in Tormund's voice makes Jon jerk his head up.

"I've seen people like her. She won't consider you family. She'll consider you a threat. Siblings have killed each other for less even among the free folk," Tormund admits solemnly.

Jon casts his eyes down and again remembers how the queen looked at him. "Jon had been immune to her grace's charms, feeling it was only an act, a political move. But the idea of having sex with his kin… the very idea makes him shudder. Though given she's, no, they're Targaryens, it wouldn't be so unusual. He chuckles softly and Tormund sends him a questioning look.

"Daenerys tried to seduce me on the way to King's Landing. To think were I to fall for it…"

"And have you not? She's a beautiful woman, even I have to admit that."

"I… No," Jon can feel his cheeks redden and hopes that his friend doesn't notice.

Jon has never had an interest in women, not really. Yet three women tried to seduce him in the past few years.

"What do you plan for later?" Tormund changes the topic, seeing Jon's unease.

"Later?"

"If there is any later after the battle and by any miracle, we survive." The redhead smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. Jon can tell that his friend doesn't believe he will live through it. And, the man decided to spend the last night of his life with him rather than his people. Jon can feel warmth flooding his heart.

"I haven't thought that far. But Winterfell feels foreign. Even more so than when I was a child," he finally says.

"Why don't you come with the Free Folk?" Tormund asks, his expression dreamy. Jon's eyes go wide. He's never considered it. "It sounds beautiful," he finally says with a small smile.

There is a soft scratch on the door and Jon smiles getting up to let Ghost in.

The wolf, ever silent, brushes its head against Jon's chest. 

"The damn beast is almost bigger than you, Little Crow. Both of you would do well in the North."

Jon wants to say that they're in the North, but he knows what the big man would say at that. Jon smiles fondly.

He realises there is more untold in Tormund's offer. Jon's not stupid, he's noticed the way his friend looks at him, with warm eyes and soft smiles.

Jon can't say that he doesn't reciprocate the feeling. He finds the older man alluring. It’s not like relationships between men are wrong or forbidden here, unlike in the South. Northern customs don’t explicitly forbid two men to have feelings for each other. But such marriages are still frowned upon and very rare. There is also another issue that comes with establishing an heir.

Jon's felt the heat in his guts countless times when his eyes met Tormund’s. But as a member of the Night's Watch and then as a king, he couldn't let himself feel anything. And so each time he lets the heat cool. As he does now, with a soft sigh.

But going north with the free folk? It sounds unreal. He has responsibilities here.

As if reading his mind Tormund lets go off his shoulder to carefully pet the direwolf. "Tell me, little crow," Tormund asks, putting his arm around him. Jon leans into it the slightest movement. "When was the last time you let yourself be selfish?"

Jon looks at him, but there is no mockery in the ginger's question. "What do you mean?"

"What kind of responsibilities are you thinking about? Haven't you done enough already? When was the last time you did something just for yourself?"

Jon stares at the man and realises that he doesn't know the answer to that.

They spend the rest of the night in silence, with Tormund's arm around his shoulder until they hear horns blowing. They slowly get up and walk outside, on their way to meet their fates.


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can feel despair creeping into his heart. He just got his only living family back. Losing them would hurt too much.  
> But he is their commander.  
> Their king.  
> The weight on his head ever reminds him of that.  
> Even if he has no hope, he needs to inspire it in others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... took way longer than expected. Mostly on the planning side. But I'm so happy to finally update it 😭 Also new tags 🥰
> 
> Art by me  
> Beta by Miss_Rust and Jennie_D  
> thank you so much!

_Into the darkness we fly_   
_Into the shadows they hide_   
_Into the darkness we fly_   
_They will never survive, they’ll die_   
_Oh they will die!_

Jon's limbs still feel stiff when he leaves the room with his friend. He doesn't know how long they sat together. Silent, but enjoying each other's company nonetheless. With a smile that doesn't reach his deep blue eyes, Tormund leads them onto the battlements.

Jon looks around and takes in the Dothraki men on Winterfell’s walls. What a strange image. Daenerys wanted to put them all on horseback and charge against the dead.She changed her mind when she learned the size of the Night King's army. They need every man. Instead, many are inside the walls and only half of the men are mounted outside.

He can feel despair creeping into his heart. He just got his only living family back. Losing them would hurt too much.

But he is their commander.

Their king.

The weight on his head ever reminds him of that.

Even if he has no hope, he needs to inspire it in others.

He watches someone give Tormund a blade made of obsidian and the man eyes the new weapon critically.

"Had we had these years ago, many of the Free Folk would still live today," Tormund says quietly, mournfully.

Jon gives him a sad smile and takes a breath to calm himself down. They have dragonglass. He's seen that just one stab of the strange stone ruins the magic reanimating the wights. Same with the Walkers. They have a chance.

They walk in silence, observing people finishing the fire trenches and other traps.

“Shouldn’t your sister be in one of the towers? She doesn’t strike me as a fighter. Not with swords at least.” His friend’s voice makes Jon look up, confused. Then he sees a spot of red ahead of them, higher on the upper battlements. He sees Sansa there, and after a moment Arya too. Her dark hair and leather armour, making her hard to spot in the dark.

“She should,” Jon admits, furrowing his bow. He doesn’t want either of his sisters in danger. But his attention focuses on his smaller sister right now. Jon has heard that Arya became a formidable fencer. But he hasn’t had an opportunity to see her skills. Jon can’t help but worry about her if she plans to fight. Technically, as a king, he can order her to hide. But something tells him that Arya wouldn’t appreciate it. Slowly they approach the two figures.

“Jon, Tormund,” Sansa greets them with a small smile. Jon can tell his sister is nervous. From the corner of his eye, he can see Tormund watching Arya intently. He suddenly realises the two haven’t been introduced to each other.

“Meet my younger sister Arya,” Jon says fondly. “And Arya, meet Tormund Giantsbane, a chieftain of the Free Folk.”

The two shake each other's hands and suddenly Tormund chuckles, startling the three of them slightly. “You two are related no doubt.” he says, pointing between him and Arya. “And that’s a grip that knows a weapon, little she-wolf,” Arya smiles at the giant man.

"Never met the Free Folk before. As children, we were told to be calm or Wildlings would steal us. But life is not children’s tales. I heard how your people helped our family retake our lands and I thank you for that, Tormund Giantsbane." Arya finishes and gives Tormund a small bow, surprising him.

"Your brother saved my people. Without him we'd be out there, marching with the dead."

The exchange brings a genuine smile to Jon's lips. But it disappears fast as he looks at his sisters and feels anxiety curl in his gut. “Why aren't you hiding?"

"I'm not going to hide as our people risk their lives." Sansa's voice is steady, blue eyes cool.

Jon sighs. "People need you. They trust you. And if I die, you're the one in command."

"Have you ever held a blade?" Arya chimes in, crossing her arms over her chest.

Sansa visibly deflates. "I know you're right but it doesn't make it easier."

"It never does." Jon smiles sadly, and pulls Sansa in for a gentle hug.

"Take this," Arya says when they part, an obsidian blade in her outstretched hand.

"I… I don't know how to use it."

"Stick them with the pointy end," Arya says, her eyes locked on Jon.

And Jon remembers. Remembers these very words he told his sister a lifetime ago.

Tormund laughs cheerfully at Arya's advice. Jon finds himself smiling too.

"Something tells me I won't manage to persuade you to hide," he says solemnly.

"Not a chance," Arya's voice is sure and steady. Her dark grey eyes mirror his own.

Jon sighs, not for the first time this day feeling so tired.

"I just got you back."

"And I just got my family back."

Jon pulls his sister into a fierce embrace. The height of her so different than what he remembers from another lifetime.

Finally, he pulls away and steps to look from the battlements, up north.

"Still hard to believe such creatures exist," Sansa says, her voice small.

"Wish theye didn't," Tormund replies solemnly, the big man always with Jon. The same as he did on their trip north, against the Boltons, in Hardhome. The giant man is his shadow and his presence makes Jon feel a tiny bit calmer.

He looks down and watches Davos bark the last orders. Jon has struck a weird, unlikely friendship with the man. He really likes the old smuggler.

His musings are interrupted when a shriek of dragons splits the air. Two of the great beasts soar over them. Jon knows Daenerys is going to aid them from the air, but his blood chills as remembers the Walkers have a dragon as well.

"There's someone coming!" Sansa's gasp gets his attention.

Indeed, there is a lone figure riding on horseback, but it's not a Walker nor a Wight. Jon widens his eyes when he recognises the person.

The red colour is visible even in the dark.

Jon's thoughts race, a creeping feeling of dread coming over him at the memory of nothingness. But he forces himself to calm down and is about to yell to his men when another voice does it before him.

"Open the gate!" Davos calls out into the night. Jon hurries to the gate.

The red woman rides slowly out of the darkness.

Jon stops abruptly and so does Tormund next him, of course.

Melisandre of Asshai stops before them, taxing them with a gaze of her odd, flaming eyes. She looks at Davos.

"No need to execute me. It's not likely I'll be alive at dawn." She moves her red eyes to Jon. "But I came to bring what little aid one priestess can."

"Remember what I told you years ago Jon Snow? There is only one war, between Life and Death. There is a power within you, a strong and wild fire. Don't let ice extinguish it." Jon feels a pang within him.

"Hen sȳndrorro, ōños. Hen ñuqīr, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson." The woman adds as she nudges her horse to ride forward.

Jon just gapes at the priestess as she rides.For some reason, the words, spoken in a language foreign to him, were perfectly understood.

_From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life._

A shudder goes through him, and Jon can see Tormund's concerned eyes bore into him. Without a word, he follows the woman through the gate.

"How can we trust that you're here to help us?" Jon, asks carefully, still wary of the woman.

The witch looks at him then, her bright eyes drilling into him.

"Death fears light and fire," Melisandre says then, getting off her mount. "I want all your men to draw blood and smear it against their blades," the woman says sternly. Jon jerks at the words. So does Davos and the soldiers surrounding them.

"... Black magic... "

"...Evil…"

"...Witchcraft…"

Jon can hear the disapproving murmurs among the warriors, both northerners and the free folk.

To his astonishment, Tormund steps forward and draws his dragonglass weapon.

"How much?" his gruff voice rings in the sudden silence.

"No need for much," Melisandre nods at him.

Without a word, the ginger man cuts his palm and runs his hand over the weapon, red visible even in the dark of night.

"Āeksiō ōños," the red priestess murmurs, grabbing Tormund's sword holding hand. Flames burst from the blade and ascend till the tip, their heat bright and comforting. People gathered around gasp and fall back, but the fire doesn’t burn Tormund's hand.

Jon's expression must be one of surprise, because the Wildling turns to him then, his blue eyes reflecting flames of his sword. "She brought you back when you were pale and cold. That's enough for me to trust a foreign witch," Tormund says softly. Jon feels a pang of affection in his gut.

"Death fears the light. Everyone's blood is precious. Blood is life. Raise your weapons, for you are fighting for the living tonight!" Melisandre's voice is not loud, but Jon knows that everyone in Winterfell could hear her nonetheless.

He looks at Tormund and the ma looks at him seriously. Steading his hand, Jon draws his sword and runs the edge over his palm lightly. Blood blooms over the edge and he runs it along the blade, as Tormund did. Jon looks around and sees men and women follow suit. Free Folk, Northerners, Dothraki, Unsullied… With a grunt, even Davos joins in.

The red witch nods and grabs his hand. "Royal blood runs in your veins, Jon Snow. Don't lose your sword," she whispers. Jon doesn't get time to feel surprised, because in a loud voice, Melisandre bellows, "Raise your weapons warriors of life! Āeksiō ōños!"

As the words leave her lips the courtyard erupts with light. Jon looks around and sees people clutching bright weapons. He can see Arya among them, holding a stranghetwo-sided spear, marvelling at the burning points; Edd and Sam looking uncertain and many others in similar states of awe. By the flare, he knows that the Dothraki outside the walls have been gifted with fire as well.Jon hopes that witch’s fire will help them.

Jon looks back at Melisandre, but the woman is already walking away.

"Enemy spotted!" comes a sudden yell, and everyone's heads jerk north. Without a word, Jon hurries up the battlements where Sansa still stands.

"Go! Hide," Jon starts nervously. Sansa doesn't move.

"I will, brother. But I need to see our enemy first."

Jon doesn't reply, his eyes trained into the darkness of the night. He can't see them, but he can hear. Tens of thousands of feet stomping and dragging against the snow. High above them, the two dragons fly forward.

"Look." Tormund's heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and Jon looks down at the courtyard where a familiar white beast seems to be waiting for him. With a sad smile, Jon descends down the stairs, his eyes softening at the sight of his oldest friend.

"Ghost, no. It's too dangerous, my friend." Jon says as he approaches the direwolf, flaming sword away,attempting to move him back to the keep. But Ghost doesn't budge. Jon sighs and moves his hand through the wolf's thick white fur. Ghost is bigger than him now, grown so much since the first time he came to this keep.

"The damn beast is protective of you. He won't leave you.”

 _Neither will I._ rings in the air unsaid.

"Alright," Jon says somewhat resigned, but at the same time happy to have both of his friends with him here. If he's to die, Jon can't ask for better companions.

He looks around.

Tens of thousands of men lighten the night with their weapons. It's a miracle that Winterfell can host them all.

They all can hear the dead now, a wheezing, cluttering mass of noise, coming closer and getting louder.

A sudden flash of fire lightens the night as Daenerys’ dragons spit fire, and they finally see the enemies' numbers. They seem endless. Jon and everyone else can see the masses of the dead. Thousands of Free Folk, brothers of Night’s watch, long dead.

Sansa gasps. Jon looks forwards solemnly and gulps. The masses are overwhelming.

"Go! Hide!"

"I'll take her there," Arya adds hurriedly, quiet till now. Jon nods to her.

Giving one last look at his sisters, he forces himself to train his eyes on the enemy. If one can call a mindless mass of the dead that.

"Fire the trebuchets!" Jon roars, lifting up his burning sword. He watches as huge, burning missiles get launched into the enemy.

Jon forces himself to calm down, to let cold determination fall down on him and help him focus on the task at hand.

"Archers, light up your arrows!" Jon continues, his orders spreading instantly. Their smiths made plenty of small arrowheads of obsidian, but they're going to try to save those for the White Walkers. Fire has proved itself deadly enough for the wights.

They can all see them clearly now, the endless mass, pushing towards the castle.The two dragons fly again, and with a burst of fire, light up the trenches, surrounding the castle. The mass stops abruptly, many of them falling into the flames and burning, letting out inhuman screeches.

The trenches, broader and deeper than they initially intended, seem to put a stop to the undead mass.

But Jon knows it would be too easy.

The temperature suddenly drops and a strong wind picks up. As if on cue, the wights start to march into the fire.

Jon watches from the wall, confused for a few moment. Until he understands what's happening

They're sacrificing themselves to put out the fires.

"Nock and lose! Fire at will!” He roars and looks around frantically . Burning arrows start flying, hitting, and instantly setting many wights on fire. Yet many are already marching forward. With every second, the temperature drops, the wind picks up, and Jon notices a fast approaching blizzard.

Only seconds later, the castle is enveloped in a storm if ice and snow, hard specks of white cutting off everyone's vision.

With his arm shielding his eyes, Jon looks up. He can no longer spot the dragons in the fury of ice. Still, even during the onslaught of the elements, their weapons don't get extinguished. Jon's thankful for little mercies.

Archers try to shoot, but with the heavy wind, arrows land too close. They cannot reach the wights, which still match on, over each other corpses, putting down the fires.

"Man the walls! Reinforce the gates!" The loud voice of Davos rolls through and Jon's thankful. Thankful he's not the only one who people count on.

Trebuchets still firing, they lay waste tothe dead, exploding at the field and setting many on fire. Just as the witch said, flames may be their greatest advantage today. With the trenches almost extinguished, the dead move closer, close enough for arrows to reach them. Archers shoot at them, putting them away fast.

But there's so many.

And when they reach the walls, they start to climb.

Swiftly, Jon moves towards the stairs, leaving space for more archers. Tormund follows immediately after him.

"If we survive this, you're coming with us, little crow." the man says, and Jon looks at his friend. Despite everything, a tiny shadow of a smile comes to his face.

"Aye," he says plainly, and braces himself.

High above the incoming masses, two blasts of fire light up the night asthey fly below the clouds.

But they get answered by eerily blue flames and Jon gulps. He's here.

"Prepare for attack!" He can hear a shout and notices it's his own.

Seconds later, the first wights reach the top of the castle walls and fall under hits of fire and stone.

Only to be replaced by three more.

Jon and Tormund are at the main gate now, ever quiet Ghost with them. The gate had been reinforced the best they could, but the dead don't know exhaustion. Soon, the first holes in the wood start to appear, immediately shot with burning arrows. But then a loud thud comes and everyone flinches.

"A giant," Tormund says breathlessly. Jon pales. He grips his flaming sword, the warmth helping against the frigid cold catching his limbs.

The thuds are getting louder. People at the gate start to step back, frightened by the proximity of the threat.

"Shoot! Shoot!" Jon roars and seconds later burning arrows shoot through the gaping holes.Then, with an explosion of splinters, a big hole is ripped in a wing and the first skeletal forms get inside the keep, small and big.

But the men of the North don't fall back. Dragonglass and fire dig into the dead with surprising effectiveness. A hit from dragonglass to a head or torso causes a wight to fall motionless. Dry crackling bodies catch and spread fire instantly.

But falling bodies only make way for the undead giant.

The creature storms in, hauling a giant axe and killing three men in one blast. Their archers shoot at him, but the flaming arrows don't catch.

With more wights coming, Jon finally uses his burning sword. Longclaw cuts into the dead with perfect precision, valyrian steel leaving the creatures unmoving. With the bright flames leaping from it, wights do not seem eager to attack him. Neither do the others.

Adrenaline coursing through him, Jon looks up to the giant hauling its weapon, the beast is currently surrounded by Dothraki. He grinds his teeth as he watches the foreign warriors fall dead.

But before his body can move, he's hauled back by a strong hand.

"Fight, Jon, fight," Tormund tells him, before lunging forward.

Jon has to block the incoming attacks, more wights getting inside now, his sword's flames not dying. He keeps slicing and stabbing, the dead falling and burning, their awful screeches ringing in the air.

But his eyes are trained on Tormund.

The Wildling man charges alone against the huge undead creature, and once again Jon is in awe over the redhead's speed. The giant swings its mace at Tormund, but the man dodges it, jumps to the side. He moves quickly behind the giant, hacking at its legs.

But it doesn't do anything.

Then, to Jon's astonishment, Tormund grabs his sword in a reverse grip, mindful of the flames, and takes out his long skinning knife.

Jon fells more wights, moving closer to the gate, when it hits him what Tormund's about to do. The man dodges one more swing and leaps behind the giant, jumping on it's back with a roar, using his weapons like pickaxes.

Jon watches in astonishment as Tormund climbs the confused creature, his weapons not quite able to pierce the layers of mammoth furs and crude armour, only slowly setting it on fire. But the redhead's moves are measured, and Jon trusts Tormund knows what he's doing.

The undead creature finally realises what's happening and tries to reach for Tormund. But the Wilding anticipates it and jumps higher. With a battle roar, he drives his obsidian blade into the head of the creature.

At once the giant stumbles and crashes into the ground, causing everyone to stare in awe for a moment. Jon stabs another wight and lunges in the direction of his friend, grabbing his furs and helping him upright. Tormund stabs another creature leaping towards them before sending Jon a smug grin. "Don't call me 'giantsbane' for nothing, little king crow," the man shouts and Jon gives him a faint smile.

Tormund's deed seems to have boosted their army's morale. Even the Unsullied and Dothraki look impressed and throw themselves back into the fight with renewed energy.

"Stand your ground!" Jon roars among the raging ice and snow, and the keep’s defenders grunt in the agreement.

Jon takes a second to look across the battlefield. His men are holding out well, dragonglass and flames laying waste to the dead. They fight on, lost in the battle frenzy, hacking, stabbing, slashing, cutting through the never-ending waves of the dead. He takes solace in the fact that they seem to have smaller losses than the enemy. The flaming arrows fly between them, coated in oil they easily set the dead aflame. Jon looks at Tormund, the man still following him across the battlefield, but can't see any major wounds on his friend.

Then, with a roar, three beasts emerge from the clouds.

But the biggest, darkest one is falling fast. As a cold shiver goes down his spine, Jon knows the dragon is dead. And so is its rider, a long icy spear pinning the white queen to her beast.

The dragon crashes to the ground and at once Daenerys' men rush the scene.

In his bones, in his blood, Jon feels the dragon queen is dead."

He tries to feel something but as a commander, all he can think is the army's morale. And he's right to worry. While the Dothraki keep fighting on, the Unsullied lines falter and break. As the death of the woman who gave them freedom crashes over them, the dead gain ground biting and killing warriors in an instant. Jon is gripped by the sudden thought that the more die, the more men will supply the dead.

Wildly, he looks among the men till his eyes fall on Daenerys' general, the grim gruff man looking absolutely lost to the surroundings. He lunges to the man, his sword deflecting the coming attacks.

"This is not over! She wouldn't want her men to die just because she did. This battle is bigger than any conquest, we're fighting for the living!" Jon roars in the face of the man, but the warrior, Grey Worm they call him. He looks at him without a word before moving away and attacking the dead. Seeing their commander resuming the fight, the rest of the warriors brace, and renew their attack.

Jon forces himself to look up where the two dragons are still fighting, orange flames against the wicked blue ones of the dead beast. On top of it sits the Night King and among the chaos of the battlefield, their eyes meet again.

But this time it’s not fear that grips Jon. It’s determination. Determination to end this. None of them deserves it, not Westerosi, not the Free Folk. The creature levels him with its gaze and raises its hand. Jon knows what it means, they all do. He watches across the battlefield and hears Tormund curse awfully when he sees the fallen soldiers rise slowly. Their only solace is that it’s only the ones killed by the enemy. The wights fallen in the battle remain on the ground.

The dragons battle on, but sadly a dragon without a rider is no match against a mounted one. Jon curses when another ice spear hits its mark and the green dragon falls with a screech, not far where its sibling’s body lays.

The undead dragon lands on top of it, announcing its victory. The White Walker gets off his beast and starts moving in the direction of the Godswood.

Jon looks widely across the battlefield and notices his small sister slashing through the dead, orange mane of Tormund's hair some further back. Noting that they're both seemingly alright, Jon grips his still flaming sword tighter and bolts in the direction of the weirwood. The faint treetop in the distance, white bark and blood red leaves stand out starkly against the night."

He doesn't know how long it takes him to carve his way through the wights. Lunging, slashing, dodging. It's almost like a dance. A very deadly dance.

Finally, Jon arrives at the gate of Godswood and he feels as if he's underwater. All the sounds of the battle, metal scraping, screams of the soldiers and shrieks of the dead suddenly fall silent.

Air is heavy with smoke, ash and snow combined, colouring everything the eery orange of fire. Jon can see Bran on his moving chair, Theon standing in front of him with his bow. On the other side of the wood, White Walkers move slowly and silently, led by their king. Jon grinds his teeth and starts in the direction of his little brother.

As he clances at Theon, the tortured man gives him a wild and frightened look. Yet he's the only Ironborn still standing.

"Hello, Jon," the quiet, emotionless voice of his brother greets him. Jon looks at him, startled, before straightening up.

He nods at Theon and the man nocks an arrow on his bow. Jon widens his eyes at the sight of the dragonglass arrowhead. At once, the archer leaps and looses in the direction of the white walkers. The arrow flies and hits one of them on the the left side of its chest, causing itto disperse in an explosion of ice. Seeing this, the Walkers stop, and only their king moves forward. Theon looses another arrow but the creature parries it with an icy blade. Jon curses and moves forward.

"Remember that fire brought you back, Jon," Bran says quietly and Jon startles with a shiver but forces himself to look forward, the enigmatic words encouraging him on.

The Night's King looks at him, and Jon understands the creature truly does hate him. This is personal. Why? He doesn't know. With a hammering heart, Jon moves forward, each step bringing him to his end.

The creature observes him and raises its weapon. The other walkers stand back, as if guarding him.

Jon steels himself and tries to analyse the creature, its moves. He fought the White Walkers before, but he knows, knows this is going to be harder. So he raises his sword and the two of them fall into a dance of death.

Night's King is fast, incredibly fast, and Jon knows if he hadn't fought his kind before, the very first thrust of the icy weapon would end him. Instead, Longclaw blocks the hit with a flourish, its strength making the bones of his arm rattle. Only second later the creature lunges again. Jon dodges the attack, his heart beating wildly, fear and adrenaline moving his limbs. The creature is fast and Jon can't help but think that Night King is playing with him. Playing like a predator would with prey.

But he's not prey to be chased and hunted. He's a wolf, and so he doubles his efforts.

Jon thinks about his family. About Bran behind him, silent and odd, but still his brother. About Sansa, who's been helping and supporting him. About Arya, who he never thought he'd see again.

So he launches again with a yell, the White Walker's undead eyes measuring him, challenging him. Longclaw hacks and slashes but each of his attacks gets parried or dodged. Jon's tired, and the wounds he sustained in the hours of fighting are not helping. He can tell that his moves are getting slower, cold and exhaustion creeping and starting to claim him. At one point, when he doesn't know if minutes of hours had passed, he slashes again, a clear arch of Longclaw falling on the enemy. But then the creature catches his wrist. Jon's eyes widen at the vice-like clutch on his arm. The creature's face grimaces, twists in something akin to a smirk, only for it to suddenly fall into confusion.

Jon doesn't know what has the Walker so transfixed, nor why he hasn't gotten pierced with its weapon yet. But he does the only thing he can think of in this situation.

Jon forces his cold fingers to release the grip on the flaming sword and the creature's expression becomes even more confused. In an instant, Jon moves his left arm and catches his sword in an unfamiliar grip.

But its familiar enough that Jon can take advantage of the Night King's moment of confusion and run the tip of his sword into the Walker's chest.

For a second, the world stills.

Then the creature bursts in a shower of crystal shards, as do all the other walkers in the Godswood. Behind them, the undead body of a dragon collapses and implodes on itself. Jon looks at Longclaw, the flames dying down as if fulfilling their purpose.

Jon just stares.

He's done it.

It's over.

They've won.

A strsnge feeling overwhelms him. A feeling of both completion, but also… loss. Loss of purpose perhaps? For years he’s been looking forward to this, to freeing people from the threat of White Walkers. But now? Now he doesn’t know what to do.

“You did it, you really did it,” comes Theon’s shaky voice, throwing Jon from his thoughts. He looks over wildly, having forgotten that he’s not alone here. He can fee Theon shaking his shoulder, voicing his congratulations and thanks but he feels overwhelmed. Numbly, Jon looks at his wrist in confusion, puzzled. What was that about? Why had the Night King gripped him, looked so shocked?

A quiet voice behind him startles him. "He tried to turn you into a White Walker, Jon. Into one of them. But it was a fire that brought you back to life. You may feel cold, but may never be frozen.” The red witch approaches them slowly, having appeared as is out of thin air. Jon looks at her wildly, remembering the words she had spoken to him many hours ago. The very idea scares him to the core. The idea he might have become one of them. “But why me?”

“You’re Azor Ahai and you were the only thing that The Dead feared,” the woman says. Jon’s eyes widen. He feels weak, so weak. “Rejoice. You stopped death, Jon Snow,” the priestess adds, her voice softer now.

“She is right, Jon” Bran adds and Jon sighs. There is too much magic, prophecies and unnatural things. He needs some grounding.

Jon looks at his brother and then Theon, noting an ugly looking gash on the man’s arm Wounds are a real, natural thing. He focuses on those.

With the end of their king, all the wights seem to have collapsed,just as the walkers and the dragon did. Jon walks and stumbles, exhaustion evident. But he needs to go on. His people need him. He needs to see who survived. So he looks at Bran and Theon and they nod, a sign he should go.

The first he finds is Arya. He’s barely made a few steps in the direction of the gate when people start pooling in. His sister among them. She runs to him and Jon catches and gathers her in a tight hug. After a moment she pulls away and Jon looks at her. There is blood on her face, likely her own, but she doesn’t seem to have sustained much damage. Jon’s heart becomes a bit lighter.

“What happened? Did you kill him?” she questions. Jon can tell that she must have seen some horrors today by the almost unnoticeable tension in her voice. Others wouldn’t notice, but not even eight years apart can hide some things between siblings.

“We won,” he says simply, suddenly sheepish.

“You did!”

“We need to check for others, many fell today,”

Arya straightens at his words. “The dragon queen is dead.”

“I know, I saw,” he says.

They walk slowly and Jon cringes at the number of bodies on the ground. Inevitable, but it still saddens him like any battle he's seen in his life. Survivors meander between bodies, looking for the living.

"Jon!"

"Sam!" Jon rushes to his friend and stops suddenly at the sight in front of him.

"Don't worry, he's alive, and in no danger."

"We made it," Edd croaks with a grimace and Jon kneels down by his friend, assessing his wounds.

"We really did," he says, smiling tiredly.

"Tormund's not with you?"

Jon looks around, a sudden fear taking his breath. Where is Tormund? He can't see the orange mane of his friend anywhere.

"Don't worry he must be somewhere, he can't be dea-" Sam starts, but Jon's already on his legs trotting across the keep. He looks around wildly, trying to remember where he last saw his friend.

"Jon!" a female voice calls him. Jon whips around to see Sansa and Tyrion Lannister, leading women and children from the tower they were hiding in. His sister trots to him and hugs him tightly, both of them not believing they're alive.

"Arya and Bran are alright," he says and the woman visibly relaxes, tension leaving her shoulders.

"Then why are you so stressed?"

"I-"

"Little Crow!"

Jon's head whips in the direction of the voice.

And here he is. Bloodied, limping a bit, but a very much alive Tormund with Ghost at his side

A surge of emotions suddenly goes through Jon, threatening to choke him.

Years of fighting, of trying to make everyone survives the walkers.

His family is alive.

So are his friends.

Jon's done fighting.

'When was the last time you let yourself be selfish?' The words, spoken barely only hours ago, echo in his head.

They're both alive.

He's done with pushing down feelings.

And he no longer cares.

With these thoughts running through his head, Jon overcomes his exhaustion and moves in the direction of the ginger man. The man's smile is wide and it only assures him. So he surges, grabbing a fistful of furs, and brings Tormund down to land a small but firm kiss on the man's lips.

Everything stills, and for a second Jon thinks he might have confused the man's feelings. But then Tormund lays a big hand on his nape and kisses back equally softly. It's warm and careful, barely there. But it's his. It's theirs.

He knows people are staring, probably sending them curses, but he doesn't care. The kiss ends sooner than he wants and Jon realises that his eyes are closed. Slowly he exhales and opens his eyes, meeting the soft blue ones.

"Tormund, I-"

"Shh… We've done it, my little crow," the man says quietly and Jon feels a sob in his throat. "I've been waiting for this for so long," Tormund adds softly.

It feels like there's only two of them, the rest of the world muted down and unimportant. But finally, at some point they need to acknowledge that there are others around them. And Jon still has responsibilities, the weight on his head ever the reminder.

“We'll talk about it," he whispers. The ginger man nods understandingly and lets go of him.

Jon buries his hands in Ghost’s fur, grimacing at the nasty wound on the wolf’s ear, before taking a shy look around.

Sansa looks surprised, if not a bit worried. Arya, now standing next to her, gives him a knowing smile. Tyrion seems to be the most shocked, but Jon's aware of how people think of men in the south.

Jon schools his expression, focusing on his duties and turns to the Lannister. "We won, but your queen didn't survive," he says quietly.

The news causes the man's eyes to go wide while another person sobs violently. Jon realises it's one of Daenerys' advisors, Missandei.

Tyrion seems to take his words with calmness, the small man looks up then. "And the dragons?"

"All dead." Arya adds, her expression sad. Jon remembers how his sister had always loved stories about dragon riders. Some of that child is still visible in her, even with her face covered in grime and blood.

Slowly, they move across the castle-turned battlefield in the direction of the keep. Jon can feel a wound on his hip, not dangerous but causing him to limp. Beyond exhausted, stuck in his head, Jon almost trips over a body of some wight, a strong hand catching him at the last second. He looks up to see Tormund looking at him with worry. He thanks him quietly and the wildling squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. Jon is not used to physical comfort, at least not like this.

But Tormund has always been very tactile, hugging him, keeping a hand on him. Jon can’t help but appreciate and almost… crave it. So he leans into his friend... Or maybe more? Too tired to care if anyone sees it as a sign of weakness or offence to their ways.

They meet the other survivors. Jon sees Sandor Clegane, wounded but very much alive, Jamie Lannister and Brienne of Tarth huddled together; Jon sends a weak smile in their direction but the two don’t look in his direction. He greets the small Lyanna Mormont, impressed that the small girl survived the battle. There is a huge gash on the girl's cheek, but Jon feels that if it scars, she will carry it with pride.

His smile weakens when they reach the gates of the keep and he sees figures approaching. Grey Worm and Missandei are by the sides of Jorah Mormont carrying the body of their queen. The white, luxurious fur coat is stained with a huge red spot on the woman’s stomach. Jon winces and Tormund squeezes his shoulder, both of them expecting some conflict.

There are tears in the old knight’s eyes, and Jon knows the man loved his queen. He can see Missandei grabbing the bald man's arm, but Grey Worm wrenches free and strides in their direction. Jon lets go off Tormund’s arm and straightens up, bracing for the confrontation.

“You made her come here and now she’s dead!” the man spits and Jon grits his teeth.

But before he can say anything, the cool voice of Sansa cuts the air like a knife. “It was a battle and she made her own decision to take part in it. She wanted to be a queen of all of Westeros. Do you think this danger would have solved itself if she sat on the Iron Throne? None of us expected to live to see another day.”

The man looks at her angrily, but his eyes soften and Jon can’t help but feel for him. He can tell they loved her.

Jon looks up when the first rays of the sun touch their faces. One night felt like an eternity. “Against all odds, we’re alive,” he says slowly. “We all need rest and healing. You’re welcome to stay till you regroup. We offer you a safe passage to White Harbour.”

“You expect us… to just leave?” the man says in disbelief.

“Torgo Nudho, this is your name, right?” he starts and the man looks at him intently. “You are not our enemy, but with your queen gone, what purpose do you have in my land?’ Jon asks. He tried hard not to wince at ‘my’ but he knows he needs to show authority. “We offer your men, as well as the remaining Dothraki, time to heal and ships to carry you home, or whenever you please,” Jon says, his crown feeling heavier than ever.

“The queen said that in the case of failure, we should leave in peace,” the woman says. Jon doesn’t know if it’s true or not, but hers ords seem to have calmed the man.

“Alright… Your Highness,” the man adds, without any sarcasm. Jon can feel the tension leave his shoulders.

Then he turns to Jorah Mormont, still holding the pale body closely. “We’ll burn the bodies tomorrow, but we all need rest,” he says quietly. The man utters a small ‘alright’. Jon looks at Sansa, then Arya and his sisters nod in agreement.

That done, he sends a look to Tormund and the man follows him in the direction of his room. As soon as they’re inside, Jon leans against the door and lets all the tension, trauma and horror go. He can feel two warm hands on his shoulders and realises he closed his eyes. He opens them up and sees Tormund looking at him so softly, he can feel a sob in his throat threatening to choke him. With the adrenaline gone, he feels less courageous, but no less sure of his feelings.

“Tormund,” he starts and the man steps closer.

“My Little Crow…” the ginger murmurs and gathers him close. The nickname suddenly means so much more. He lets the man carefully lift the iron crown off his head and set it aside, the simple gesture making him feel so much better. He’s not a king here, he’s just a man. Tormund gathers him close and Jon feels so very vulnerable. But the hold is strong and warm. The man put his hand on the side of his face and he can’t help but lean into the touch.

“I never believed I’d survive this, that’s why-”

“Shh, I know. I didn't expect to live through this either,” Tormund says quietly, his eyes soft, warm blue, so unlike the dead icy eyes of the dead.

Gathering his courage, he looks up at the wildling man, "Kiss me," Jon says hoarsely and licks his cracked lips. "Please."

And Tormund does. Cupping his face softly, he seals their lips and Jon melts into it, emotions surging within him. The redhead's lips are soft and warm, Jon loving the press of them on his own. So soft and careful coming from a man so wild. He has no experience but Tormund doesn’t seem to mind, threading his hand into Jon's hair. Neither of them tries to deepen it, too tired, too caught in their own emotions. Still, Jon feels dizzy with it, not used to such emotions guiding him. Finally, they part and Tormund presses his foreheads to his breathing heavily, both of them satisfied with just _being_.

"Thought you southerners condemn things like this," the redhead starts after a moment and Jon winces.

"That's the southern south, here people just scowl, but it's not forbidden" he murmurs.

“I’m glad I didn’t push you off The Wall then,” Tormund says with a note of humour in his voice and Jon chuckles softly.

“We’re alive, Tormund Giantsbane,” he repeats, more to reassure himself than the redhead.

“Aye, Jon Daybreaker, we are,” the man says and Jon jerks at the name.

“You earned this,” the man says, bringing his chin higher only to kiss him again. “You saved us all, Jon, my king” Tormund whispers against his lips and Jon can’t help the small sob from escaping his lips.

“Jon, I want to be just Jon right at this moment. _Please_ ,” he says tiredly and leans his weight on the taller man

“You need rest, are you wounded?” the Tormund asks with care

“I… I’m not sure, everything was so… You?”

“Nothing serious, a miracle that,” Tormund says. Jon notes the man is equally tired, just masking it better. Years of being a chieftain must have taught him that.

“Could you... could you stay?”

“I’m not leaving you, little crow. Come to bed, you need sleep.”

“Let’s jus’ clean first,” Jon’s speech slurs, exhaustion making his eyelids drop.

Without a word, Tormund guides him to his bed and sits him down. A moment later there is a cold, wet washcloth cleaning his face from all the grime, sweat and blood. The cold is a welcome refreshment and Jon doesn’t even flinch. The man carefully takes off his bloodied armour and he feels a weird sense of deja vu. The situation reversed from the time the wildling found him awake on the cold slab. Naked, cold and confused.

He’s not confused now. Tormund’s hands are warm and Jon feels _safe_.

The touch is practical and soon Jon is left only in his smallclothes. There is a nasty bruise on his hip, several gashes on his torso, legs and arms, but nothing serious enough to put him in danger. He knows he must be dozing off because the next time he opens his eyes, Tormund presses him on the bed and lays behind him, wrapping his arms around his torso and covering them with furs. The man is down to his undergarments as well and the press of his chest to Jon’s back is soothing. Tormund's body warmth seeps into him and Jon instantly relaxes despite the novelty of the feeling.

“You’re coming with us Jon,” the wildling murmurs sleepily into his ear and Jon curls against him, letting the warmth of Tormund's body lull him to sleep.

He considers the words for a moment and then nods. “I’d like to, yes.”

With these last words, they both fall into deep sleep.


	3. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time without an update I know, I'm sorry.  
> As you can see, the rating changed.  
> Beta by Jennie_D thank you!  
> Art by me  
> Enjoy!

Jon opens his eyes slowly and instantly notices two things. First, he's in dull pain. Second one, he's warm.

That's when he remembers the battle. The masses of the dead. The Night King bursting into pieces. The kiss-

Suddenly Jon understands why he feels warm. There is a thick arm around him and his back is pressed to a warm chest. Tormund.

The man is asleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest making Jon settle. To think that it would take the end of the white walkers for him to finally dare to make a move.

He's been having feelings for the redhead for years now. But the constant conflicts and danger had never let him follow his own feelings.

'Love or duty' he hears the old maester's words.

But he's done his duty. Already died for the Watch. And survived seemingly inevitable death at the claws of White Walkers.

Jon's not used to the intimate touch, but he can't help but relax under the sleeping Wildling's arm.

He was so exhausted yesterday, or was it already today? But he remembers the calm press of their foreheads. The kiss sweeter than any southern wine he's tasted. The steady, purposeful hands undressing him and testing for injuries. If he wasn't so tired he would have felt embarrassed. Or maybe he wouldn't? Wildlings don't share the southerners views on what’s decent and what’s not. Jon feels so calm and comfortable around the older man.

The grip around his chest is sure and strong, even in sleep. Carefully Jon turns his head to look at the man’s face. Tormund looks… soft. That’s a term he wouldn’t use to describe the warrior often. Wrinkles caused by stress and trauma are smoothed into a peaceful expression; the man looks younger and unburdened. Something inside Jon’s chest swells.

Against all odds, they’re both alive.

Truthfully, Jon doesn’t know if he’s ever seen the wildling this peaceful. The man looks almost vulnerable. He realises he'd like to see it more often. A small, hopeful smile appears on Jon’s face.

Something must have betrayed his wakefulness because Tormund jerks slightly and opens his eyes. Confusion, realisation and fondness flash through them. The man smiles at Jon softly.

“My little crow," A low burr of Tormund's tone calming him down. Jon never thought the old monicker would sound so lovely.

“Tor…” the word is choked. Jon doesn’t know if it’s because of the morning grogginess, the aching of his bruises, or the storm of feelings threatening to strike him.

“We're alive," the words quiet, faint, spoken with uncertainty. As if saying them louder would somehow make them less true.

"We're alive," Tormund repeats after him and brings his hand to Jon's face. He's not used to touch, especially this intimate, but Jon doesn't move away. Instead, he closes his eyes and leans into the big hand.

"We're free," the ginger says. "You're free, Jon."

Jom remembers the man's words, 'Why don't you come with the Free Folk?' Did the redhead really mean it? But the look of Tormund's face is patient, eyes trained on his face in silent determination. Could it really be so simple? There is no Watch to hold him. There are no Walkers to run away from. The South doesn't concern him.

Could it really be this simple?

"You're thinking too much." The hand on his cheek moves and grips his bearded chin. "I care about you, king crow," the words are measured, but Jon can hear the unsaid in them.

"I care about you too," Jon replies quietly, and lets the hand guide him slowly into a kiss. It's a small, short thing and when they part, he's smiling softly.

A light knock on the chamber's door makes the both of them jerk.

"Your Grace, Lady Sansa requests entrance," comes the quiet voice of the castle maid.

"Just a moment!"

Tormund pulls away and gets up, Jon doing the same. They dress up quickly, Jon scowling at the bloodied armour. Tormund's no better and Jon makes a note to deal with it later.

There is no sense in hiding Tormund's presence, but Jon still feels his cheeks warm when his sister enters.

Sansa looks surprised when she comes in, but she smiles at them. A weak, but genuine smile.

"Jon, Tormund," she starts.

But Jon comes forward and takes a look, searching for any injuries on his sister .

"I'm fine Jon. We didn’t leave until the end. None of the weights got inside.”

"Good thing you didn't hide among your dead," Tormund joins in dryly.

Sansa looks at him. "If not for your comment, we would have. I owe you my life, Tormund Giantsbane."

Giant man’s eyes widen and he nods.

"I need to talk to you in private. Tormund, could you excuse us?"

His friend gives him a look and Jon nods slightly.

"I'll go check on the Free Folk," the man says and sends him a smile before leaving.

Once they're alone, Jon can't help but feel the awkwardness rising up his neck.

"I'm glad you two finally got to it," Sansa says sitting down on a chair by his table.

Jon jerks. His expression must be really something because his sister giggles. Jon hasn't heard her giggle…ever since they were children.

"What, how - how did you know?" Jon asks, his voice thin. He's sure his face must be flushed red right now.

"I'm your sister, Jon. We might not have been close in the past, but you weren't exactly subtle with your interest in men when you were younger." Jon jerks again, now definitely embarrassed. He remembers the time his father found him kissing another boy.

“But mostly it's the affection Tormund shows you. I noticed that the Free Folk are quite affectionate, but this is more, 'little crow'."

"I… We…," Jon stutters but Sansa gestures at him to sit down.

"It's fine brother, I'm happy for you," she says and Jon settles some. "What are your plans now?" Sansa asks, her tone turning more serious now..

Jon sighs and reaches for the crown that Tormund put on the table after the battle. He takes it in his hands, looking at its sharp points and edges.

"When I joined The Watch eight years ago as a boy, we learned about the White Walkers," he begins. Jon looks at Sansa, her blue eyes reflecting his own peacefully. "Unlike many of my former brothers, I knew that they were our enemy, not the Free Folk. I tried to save them, and I died for it. Then I was brought back, and our people chose me to become their king so that I could lead them in the fight against the dead," Jon continues slowly, choosing his words carefully. "But now that the Walkers are gone, my duty is done-"

"You want to go with the Free Folk, don't you Jon?" Sansa interrupts. For the second time today, Jon looks at her surprised.

Sansa just chuckles softly. "For years, I've seen different kings and lords fight for power. And here is my brother, willing to let go of power he hadn't ever tried to earn." She shakes her head with a fond look. Not for the first time it strikes Jon how wise his sister is. But he wishes Sansa didn't have to pay such a steep price for her experience and knowledge. A fleeting memory of a bloodied face and wet blood on his fists of the man that hurt her runs through his mind.

"You're already the Lady of Winterfell, by your right Winterfell is yours." Jon says with a smile. He takes a moment to breathe, trying to steel himself. "Would you be willing to become a Queen in the North as well?" he finally manages.

Sansa exhales slowly, and gives him a long look. Finally she says "You'd be a good king Jon. The very fact you do not hunger for power is proof of it. The months you spent away dealing with Daenerys Targaryen, helped me to learn about Winterfell and the local lords. About the needs and expectations of the people. I think I could do that, yes. If this indeed is your wish." Sansa says and Jon feels a great, heavy weight lift from his shoulder. It must show because the redhead smiles brightly at him.

"Thank you Sansa," he says and reaches to put the crown on her head. The woman closes her eyes as he does so and sighs, the weight of it and the responsibilities it brings coming to her.

"We need to do it officially among the lords. I know Arya won't have anything against it, Seven knows the two of you are wild. As for Bran…" she looks to the window and sighs. "I suppose Bran has foreseen this,"

"One other thing though, what of Cersei Lannister?" Sansa asks.

Jon's face falls a bit. "She betrayed us. But she also demanded that as a King in the North I wouldn't side with either her nor Daenerys. I accepted those terms."

"She most likely expected all of us to die or get so crushed by the Walkers that we'd be easy pickings."

"Yet we survived." Sansa says. "She won’t send her men north, not during Winter. She's mad, but not that mad."

Jon smiles . "You'll be much better at this than me."

"Come now," Sansa says and reaches for the crown, her fingers touching it delicately so as to not get cut on the soft edges, and gives it back to him. "We have much to do today," she finishes, without a smile this time.

*

The wights and Walkers killed hundreds. Piling the bodies of the Northmen, knights of the Vale, Dothraki and The Unsullied takes many hours until three huge piles are made. One of the last placed in the center pile s is the small body of the dragon Queen. Jon watched Jorah Mormont fight with Grey Worm about it. The bald men insisted they take the body to Asshai, but one look from The Red Woman deemed the body too mutilated to revive.

Jon isn’t sure whether it’s a blessing from the Gods, or pure luck that none of the people close to him were killed. He recognises the faces of many among the dead - lords, bannermen, the free folk. But none of them close.

Jon watches Tormund as the man lights the pile next to him. The redhead’s expression is dour, he lost many of his people and friends to the dead.

Looking past the Wildling he can see Sansa, her face solemn.

They lost many. But they're aware the loss could have been far worse, if not complete.

He walks back to the castle and from the footsteps behind him, Jon knows that Tormund's following him. He can't help but smile at how used to Wildling’s presence he's grown.

Jon stops and waits till the tall man is by his side. Tormund seems deep in thought, and Jon can't blame him. His expression must be visible because the man smiles at him.

"So, what did you and the she-wolf decide?" The words are careful, unsure.

"Sansa will be a good queen." Jon says, amused by the nickname the Wildling has given to his sister.

"Does it mean-"

"Yes, I'd like to go with the Free Folk."

And he does. The months he spent with them years ago weere tough and full of hardship. And although he was not trusted, the freedom of not being judged for being a bastard, but for his hard work, really made its place inside his heart.

Also, it's worth it, if only for the brightest smile he's ever seen on Tormund's face.

The man grabs him and picks him up in the air as if he weighed nothing, crushing him in a warm hug.

Jon laughs and motions at the giant man to put him down.

There is a soft chuckle behind them, and Jon turns to see Arya.

Funny to see someone picking you up for a change, Jon." Jon blushed, causing both of them to laugh.

"I'm glad for the two of you," she says. Tormund looks between them, surprised.

"Oh, Jon was never subtle about his interest in other men."

This time he knows his face is red..

"What- How-"

"I was a child but I wasn't blind. Saw you kissing with one of the kitchen boys many times."

To his horror, Tormund bursts into laughing.

"I've seen many things Jon. Cruel and painful things. But I've never seen anything like that," she says, her words serious. "We just got reunited and I was afraid I'd lose you again." She says and suddenly Jon sees his little sister again. The sister who'd ask him to braid her hair and carry her around. He brings her in for a tight hug and they stay like that for a moment in comfortable silence. Jon opens his eyes to see Tormund smiling at the two of them fondly.

"We'll have time to catch up properly," Jon says warmly. Something in his sister's grey eyes flickers.

"I have some things to do, I'm leaving tomorrow," Arya says and the smile on Jon's lips dies.

"It's about Cersei, isn't it?" Jon says quietly. Arya looks at him surprised. He can't help but chuckle.

"The smith boy told us how you two met when we were on our trip to capture the wight. He told us about your list of people who you want to kill," Tormund joins in, surprising the two of them. "And haven't seen you fight, I know you're capable, little wolf,"

"Arya, plase…" Jon's tone drops to pleading as he puts his arms around his sister. "We're in no danger, she doesn't have enough people to pose a threat to us. Everyone is tired with constant war. Let it go."

Arya's face drops but she seems to consider his words.

"It won't bring back their lives," he finally says.

Arya’s eyes lose their ferocity and soften. She sighs "I'll stay for a few days."

It's better than nothing.

Jon nods and the three of them resume walking in the direction of the Great Hall.

Despite everything, they survived.

And survival needs a celebration.

As they walk in, Jon takes a look around. There are Free Folk and Northmen. He notes the lack of Dragon Queen's men. They were invited, but he understands the lack of their presence. After all, they are mourning their leader.

He walks to the main table, aware of the eyes on him. His siblings are on his right but this time Tormund sits on his left. The redhead's presence urges him on silently. Finally Jon stands up and the talking ceases.

"My lords and ladies, men of the North, the Free Folk. Today we celebrate the sacrifice of our fallen brothers and sisters." Jon smiles when he’s interrupted with people cheering and toasting. "But also the victory against death and endless winter. Life won!" More cheers, Tormund at his side joining as well. "If it wasn't for every single one of you, not only wouldn't we be here tonight. The rest of Westeros would be doomed."

He lets people cheer for some time, sipping a bit of wine himself, before he puts the glass away.

Two years ago when the threat of the walkers became apparent, it was you my lords and ladies, who named me your king. I tried to lead the best I could."

"White Wolf!"

"Dawnbreaker!"

"King in the North!"

Jon is interrupted yet again by shouts of support, realizing that the rumor he was the one who killed the Night King must have already reached people's ears.

He's not used to this. All his life he was just a bastard.

"You chose me to lead you against the White Walkers, and now they're all dead."

People quiet slightly, the change in direction in his tone reaching them now.

"You chose me to lead you, and I did. But I was trained to command, not to rule. It was never my goal nor ambition." Jon pauses, but since no one interrupts him, he continues on.

"There is someone, however, who was indeed raised to rule. Someone who you know well. And who is a Stark." Jon takes off the iron crown, before saying, "Therefore, I name Sansa Stark, first of her name, the Queen in the North." Jon quiets as he puts the crown on his sister's head.

The Great Hall is silent for a few seconds, before exploding into cheers and screams.

"Queen in the North! Queen in the North!"

Jon lets out the breath he hasn't noticed he's been holding. He feels a great pressure lessening from his shoulders. He sits down slowly and feels grounded when Tormund's hand lands on his shoulder assuringly.

He's aware of Sansa talking, of people cheering. But he can't focus on it.

There's no more duty.

He's free.

Sansa finishes speaking and the atmosphere loosens, people returning to feasting and celebrating amongst each other. Some sing, some joke, some augh. There are those who mourn, but even they smile even if weakly.

A heavy arm around his shoulder makes Jon jerk slightly.

"Got stuck in your head again, crow? You did it. Rest now, celebrate with us. With me.” Tormund's eyes are sparkling in the candlelight. Jon smiles at him, his face muscles almost protesting the uncommon expression. He's been smiling a lot lately.

"That's more like it. The Free Folk are used to many celebrations. Life in the North is hard, it's been so especially in the past years. So we take every opportunity we can get to enjoy life."

The feast goes on, and the gathered have no care for the titles or lack thereof Especially the Free Folk. Soon he finds himself surrounded by the Wildlings. Many come to personally congratulate Jon or thank him for ending the White Walkers.

It’s very strange. Sitting in the Hall. He was never allowed to enter during feats, and sharing it with the people he was taught were his enemies. How things change.

To his surprise, Sansa joins them, his sister looking moret at ease since he'd last seen her before joining the Watch.

The Wildlings seem delighted, and so does Tormund. Jon noticed that the two redheads were getting along despite being so different.

"Tormund, as de facto the leader of the Free Folk, I want you to know that as the Queen, I won't challenge Jon's decision. The Free Folk are still welcome in The Gift," she says. Tormund looks at her first surprised, then happy.

"I'm sure there are some tired of the cold who are likely to move there, Wolf Queen. But to many, myself included, The Real North is home." Tormund's voice is serious. Jon nods, he'd expected as much.

"But today, we celebrate," the Wildling turns to Jon then with a big smile. "Now, drink this." Tormund hands him his horn and Jon pales. "In one go."

"No way" he tries to refuse half-heartedly.

"Come on Jon, you can do it," Sansa joins in. The traitor.

"Vomiting is not celebrating,"

"Yes it is."

Jon just chuckles fondly but accepts the drinking horn. He manages to down it, drawing loud cheers from those gathered around him."

"To the Dawnbreaker!" Tormund roars. Everyone present joins in.

But it feels unfair. So Jon stands up and raises his cup.

"To everyone who fought for our lives!" This gets even bigger uproar. Jon puts down his cup and staggers slightly. A sure hand catches him and rights him up.

"Perhaps enough drinking for you. Come now, let's get some air," Tormund suggests, already leading him out.

Fresh, night air greets him once they're out in the castle's courtyard. Jon instantly feels better. Finally, he looks at Tormund, the Wildling watching him with a small smile.

Jon's chest swells. He's entirely unused to such care. He doesn't protest when Tormund gathers him close, big arms bringing him a sense of comfort and safety he's not prepared for. The older man cups his face and Jon leans in.

“Never would have thought I’d fall for a crow,” Tormund murmurs, blue eyes glistening in the dark.

Jon moves his eyes to the man's lips, then back to his eyes. Tormund's hand moves to his chin, nudging it up. Careful, ever questioning. Jon closes his eyes, nodding slightly, and Tormund covers his lips with his own. IIt's soft, sweet. Jon realises they're both smiling.

The kiss ends when a shiver runs through him.

Tormund steps away and looks at him in confusion. Jon only now realises how cold it really is outside.

"We should get inside. You're cold, little crow. I'd give a lot for a northern cave with a spring right now. These bones need some heat from time to time too." the man finishes the thought with a chuckle.

Jon looks up at him, confused.

"Some caves have hot springs. Haven't had time to visit them in the last few years.”

The realisation hits Jon and a small chuckle escapes his lips. "Ever wondered why the castle is so warm? It's heated with water from hot springs underneath it. There are baths too."

"Could use that." the redhead murmurs with a smile.

The idea is… appealing. The feast is going to go on for many hours, and Jon doubts anyone will miss them. The past months have been a constant rush of planning, negotiation and debates. He hasn't had time to relax for so long...

They enter the castle again, but Jon turns in the opposite direction of the great hall, leading Tormund deeper into the ancient walls.

"I haven't been down there for years. I hope everything is in place," he says as they walk into the baths.

And as if by some miracle, it is. Piles of furs, cloth, soaps, and oils are still present in the steam-filled room leading to the pools. The place is cast in the low orange glow of lit torches and blaziers.

"Haven't had a chance for a proper wash for ages," Tormund says before starting to undress. It hits Jon suddenlythat he's never really seen the Wildling out if his furs. Yesterday he was too tired, falling asleep instantly. Now he only remembers the warmth of the tight embrace.

"Not that I'm not worth looking at, but I don't suppose you're going to bathe in all this?" Tormund's tone is teasing, followed by a chuckle. Jon jerks, realising he's been caught staring. "It's alright little crow, you're allowed to look," the Wildling adds, his voice calm. Tormund rarely addresses Jon with his name. When he does, Jon knows he's serious.

Jon's sure he's blushing, but who can blame him? Tormund has called himself ‘kissed by fire’ many times in the past. But now the phrase gets a new meaning. Not just his face, but all of him is covered in freckles, centering on his thick arms and shoulders. His broad chest is covered with deep red curls the same colour as his beard. There are many scars on his body, and Jon can't help but wince at the sight of one he put there himself. Tormund has always looked bulky and while Jon's always been aware of the man's strength, now he can see it wasn't just the many layers of fur. He looks both intimidating and magnificent.

"I know, it's just- it's new to me," Jon finally says with a small smile.

By the time Jon's done shedding his own leathers, Tormund's already brought in washcloths and soaps. The man is now completely bare and testing the water in one of the pools. Unlike the natural caves, these are regular rectangular pools with seats carved in stone. Carved by his ancestors hundreds if not thousands of years ago.

"Not bad, think these are even warmer than those I used.”

Jon steps in slowly, feeling just a bit vulnerable being naked around someone else. But it's just the novelty of it. He feels no shame. Especially in the company of Tormund. He grabs a bar of soap and washcloth and proceeds to clean off the grime and dust of the battle. He notices out of the corner of his eye that Tormund does the same. Jon washes his hair, surprised at how long it's gotten.

"Pretty crow feathers." Jon turns around, blushing, but Tormund's smile is gentle.

"Come here." A big arm gets draped around his shoulder and Jon lets himself get pulled closer. They settle in the carved seats. Jon puts his hands on Tormund's chest tentatively, his touch light. They sit in comfortable silence for some time, just enjoying the warmth and each other's presence. The hand on his shoulders moves to his hair, and Jon sighs as Tormund massages his scalp. It's all so unnaturally blissful.

"My little crow." Tormund nudges his chin up, and Jon moves his hands to wrap around his thick neck, and then they're kissing again. Just their lips moving slowly in long kisses. They part after a moment to take a breath.

"Tormund, gods..." His voice is shaky. This time when their lips meet, a hot tongue swipes over his lips questioningly. Something curls in his gut, and Jon gasps softly before letting the redhead deepen the kiss. Their tongues meet, and the groan he gets from the Wildling sends a shiver down his spine.

He's been kissed before, and gone slightly further when he was young and knew nothing. But it had never felt like this. Gathering his courage, Jon moves, sliding into the Wildling's lap. It feels good, it feels right.

His hands move higher, running through damp red curls he's longed to touch for so long. Tormund's hands run across his back, and Jon all but moans into the kiss.

They part, panting, before capturing each other's lips again. It's hot and hazy, making all thoughts leave his head. Could there be anything better?

And then Tormund moves to kiss his neck. Jon moans so deeply, his face heats in embarrassment. The Wildling chuckles and a hot tongue swipes behind his ear, followed by the scratch of his beard.

"Didn't expect you to be so vocal, sweet crow,” Tormund breathes into his ear and Jon keens.

"Gods, _fuck."_ It leaves his mouth unbidden, and Jon tries to feel shame in it.

But he can't. Not when Tormund's looking at him like this.

So he lets Tormund kiss his neck, suck and nibble on his skin. It makes him hot, driving away all other thoughts. He's breathing heavily, almost panting now. A jolt runs through him, Jon rolls his hips unconsciously, only now realising he's hard. And he's not alone.

It makes him freeze, but the groan that falls from Tormund's mouth, hot against his skin, only adds to the scorching heat in his groin. Jon pulls away slightly to look at the man's eyes. They're dark and dilated. on's fairly certain his own are too.

"What do you want, little crow?"

"I've never- I mean…" Jon stops, embarrassed by his stuttering. But Tormund's eyes are bright and calm, waiting but not judging. "I've never been with anyone before," he says quietly.

But Tormund just kisses him, slower now, and Jon melts into it.

"There is nothing wrong with that. We don't need to do anything more than kissing. It’s more than perfect."

"No, it's fine. I think- No, I know I want to. If you do. Can I touch you?"

"'Course you can, sweet thing,"

Jon pulls away a bit to look at the man.

Tormund's body is all muscle. Broad shoulders and thick arms. Jon puts his hand lower, running his fingers through the thick hair on Tormund's chest. He leans and kisses the Wildling's neck, trying to mimic the action.

"Fuck, Jon-"

Encouraged, Jon rakes his hands lower, admiring the scar covered chest and abs. Tormund lets him, leaning back against the stone and pulling him closer on his lap. The motion drags their erections, the friction making him moan into Tormund's neck.

"Not everything about you is little, it seems." Tormund's tone is light but strained. Jon huffs a small laugh and rolls his hips again.

It feels good, so good. It's been years since he's last been this aroused. He feels hazy with it. With this thing between them. Tormund has this effect on him. He makes him bold. And maybe, just maybe, he indeed spent too much time with the Wildlings.

But then, he's to be one now.

Or maybe he's always been one.

Jon glances to where a pile of warm bear furs and wolf pelts lay next to a fire. Tormund follows his gaze and makes a sound of approval.

"You want to lay with me, little crow?" The man whispers into his ear, his voice hoarse.

"Think I'd like that," he breathes, noticing how low his own voice has gotten. Jon bites his lip, feeling hot all over.

Tormund groans and moves his big hands underneath Jon's thighs. It confuses him for a second, but then the redhead picks him up. Instinctively, Jon wraps his legs around the slim hips and groans when their lengths get pressed together.

"Tormund," it comes out almost like a plea.

"I've got you."

And he does. Jon clutches to the muscled shoulders as Tormund steps out of the bath, carrying him. The Wildling puts him down on a thick bear fur and places himself on top of Jon carefully.

"I don't like these."

Jon is confused. Until he sees that Tormund's eyes, now steeled, are focused on his chest. Ah.

"I was to kill every one of those cunts who did that to you," the man growls, trailing his finger over the curved scar that marks the killing blow. The words stir the fire in him. Jon knows what Tormund had done. He stormed Castle Black _again_ just to get to his body.

With this thought, Jon surges and captures the Wildling's mouth in a hot, hungry kiss. Tormund growls into it, and ruts against Jon, earning a moan from him.

The kisses follow lower, on his neck, collarbone and then chest. Tormund licks and kisses each and every one of his scars and Jon squirms, clutching at the red hair.

"I won't let this happen again," Tormund breathes and grips his chin in his hand, thumb caressing his bottom lip softly. "I swear." The blue eyes are earnest, looking at his intensely. "Always putting others in front of yourself, Jon Snow," the redhead murmurs. "Let me take care of you for once, alright?"

"Aye," Jon replies quietly, lost in the blue depths.

"Flip on your belly and relax. Do you trust me?"

"Aye." It comes instantly, and there is fondness in the Wildling's gaze.

The man pulls away and Jon turns on his stomach, hissing slightly when his hardness brushes over the thick furs. A warm hand presses his back down gently and Jon sighs when Tormund's lips brush his neck in a light kiss.

"Don't we need something slick?" Jon gasps, having a vague idea about the process.

"I won't hurt you, my little crow," Tormund chuckles lowly and runs his hands over Jon's back, followed by small kisses.

"I know,"

"Let me?"

"Aye."

Jon feels Tormund's big hands skip lower, till they're on his bum, caressing lightly and kneading his flesh. The feeling is very novel, but he doesn't jerk nor still for it. It's Tormund, it's safe.

"I’ve got to say, one of the roundest bums I've ever seen," the man mutters and Jon laughs, albeit while blushing.

Suddenly he feels something soft and wet on his skin, and it takes him a moment to recognise it as a tongue. A soft gasp leaves him when it swipes over his entrance, the feeling unlike anything he's ever felt.

"Is it good?"

Jon nods in a reply, unable to form words. Tormund hums back at him.

It should be bad, obscene even. But he's relaxed and there is no hurry. For the first time in years, Jon can just lay and let someone take charge. It shouldn't feel as good as does.

"That's it, relax," Tormund murmurs quietly before licking again. His touch is hot on Jon’s skin, calloused hands rubbing small circles in the flesh of his butt, kneading and caressing.

Small whimpers fall from his lips, and it takes Jon some time to even notice them. Then the hot tongue dips into him and Jon moans loudly, unbidden. It feels good, sensual even. His manhood twitches, pressed between his body and the furs.

"Tormund, _please_ ," he calls after a while, not even sure why. He knows he wants more.

The ginger pulls away and gently rolls him onto his back.

"What do you need?" The words are soft, gentle.

"You."

"And how do you want me?" Tormund grips his chin gently and Jon's chest swells. "Do you want me inside?"

"Think I do," he gasps, overwhelmed. He leans for another kiss, melting into the man above him. A big hand runs down his side, hitching his thigh higher.

He's heard how good making love between men can be, but he’s never tried. There never was anyone Jon's been willing to try with. Until now.

Tormund kisses him once more, before pulling away. "Need some oil," the man murmurs softly.

Jon runs his hands down till he reaches his cock, aching and twitching under his touch. Gods he's so turned on.

"You look absolutely incredible."

Opening his eyes, Jon looks at his lover. Admiration burns in the blue eyes as Tormund sets a flagon of scented oil next to the furs.

"So do you," Jon murmurs and spreads his legs, making space for the Wildling.

"This may be a bit uncomfortable, but I promise it'll pass."

Jon only nods, and the ginger sends him a smile. Not for the first time he marvels at how very gentle this man can be.

A slick, wet finger traces his entrance. Jon forces himself to relax.

"That's it, Jon, loosen up," Tormund breaths against his ear and nips on his lobe, while slowly pushing in. It's an odd feeling, but not entirely unpleasant. The man moves slowly, going deeper. Jon shudders with a moan.

"Look at you." A low murmur makes something inside of Jon coil. He's never received much praise, not really. And to have this great man tell him he's doing something good… His cock twitches.

Tormund thrusts gently inside of him, stretching his hole, before pulling out and inserting two of his fingers. Jon's hips spasm and the redhead sends him a concerned look.

"Go on, please, _ah-_ "

Two fingers feel so much more intense. A bit painful but it's slowly passing. It starts to feel _good_.

Then Tormund presses against _something_ inside of him and a full body spasm goes through Jon, along with an explosion of pleasure behind his eyes.

"Fuck!"

"Got you." Tormund's voice is smug, and sure enough there’s a smirk on his friend's face. The fingers inside him brush over that spot again and Jon jerks with a keening moan.

"Told you it'll feel good," the redhead adds.

If that's only fingers, how good can actual sex be?

Tormund stretches him more, wrenching more sounds from Jon with every brush of his fingers against that spot inside of him. It feels good, Gods.

The hand gripping his hip moves and Jon moans and jerks when Tormund's fingers wrap around his full length.

"Tor, fuck-"

"Beautiful, your cock's so hard and wet. You really enjoy this, don't you?"

One hand rubbing and hitting that spot inside him, the other grasping his throbbing length, smearing his precum and making Tormund's touch so smooth. It feels so fucking good. Jon feels so _cherished_.

Jon bucks his hips into the hot touch. He's close. But this is unlike any time he touched himself. It's so intense, coming from within his gut.

Tormund stills his hand on Jon's length and instead adds another finger. He attacks that spot inside Jon, sending waves upon waves of pleasure. The pressure inside him has been coiling, building up. At last, he arches his back and cries out. A hot explosion fills his entire body with pleasure and he comes hard in Tormund's grip. It fills him, seeping through his veins till he's all but lost in it.

It takes him a few moments to calm his panting and focus his sight on Tormund's face, still holding his now softened cock.

"You look so very hot when you cum, little crow. And the sounds you make…" Tormund's voice is rich and Jon feels shaky. Still, he tugs on Tormund's curls and brings him into a hot, breathless kiss. He can't get enough.

" _Tormund."_ Jon all but moans against the man's lips. "More-" His voice is so needy, he can't help but feel shame.

But it seems Tormund doesn't share his thoughts.

"Still want me inside?'

"Yes."

Tormund raises a bit and Jon can't help but marvel at the man's size. Can he really take this much? The Wildling reaches for the oil and slickens his cock.

"Are you sure?" The sound of concern in Tormund's voice only assures Jon.

"Aye."

Tormund grips his hips and Jon shakes in anticipation. Then the man pushes and all of Jon's thoughts evaporate.

It's not painful, not exactly. But so very intense.

"Am I hurting you?" The concern in Tormund's voice makes him want to sob. But he's breathless. So instead Jon shakes his head and rocks his hips.

The Wildling pulls out and thrusts back in slowly, this time pushing more of his length inside of him.

"Jon, _fuck,"_ Tormund grunts hoarsely. "You're absolutely perfect." Jon wants to refuse, but Tormund licks into his mouth. It's deeper, rougher. Their teeth clash in hungry kisses. Intense as if they can't get enough.

At last, with a moan, Tormund bottoms out and lets go of Jon's lips, still panting and sharing hot breaths. Jon feels full, so full. It's so good.

"Perfect. My king."

"Don't. I'm no longer-"

"I don't care about southern kings. You're my King beyond The Wall, and I'll follow you to the coldest depths and back." Tormund breathes hoarsely and thrusts deep into him.

This time Jon can't stop a loud sob from leaving his kiss swollen lips.

Big hands grip his hips tighter and starts thrusting, slow and deep, All while trailing hot kisses down his neck. With a surprise, Jon notices he's hard again.

Tormund notices too and grins against his skin. Then the man changes his angle and Jon cries out loudly when his spot gets hit.

Jon's back arches and his already leaking cock brushes against Tormund's hairy groin.

His hands move to grip the redhead's shoulders when the thrusts become stronger, each of them wringing a hoarse moan from his lips. Jon opens his eyes and looks at his lover's face. Tormund's focused, his eyes dilated but still warm. He looks so good.

Jon's never dreamed this could feel so perfect, so right. Tormund's both gentle and ruthless with his thrusts, wrenching sounds from him Jon never thought he could make.

"Feeling good?"

"Yes, please, so good," his words are shaky but Jon doesn't care.

He doesn't need to care anymore, he's free. Only he and Tormund matter right now. Only the warmth of the Wildling's hands on his skin. Only the deep, intense feeling of being one with his lover.

And like that his body stills and the pressure inside of him releases when he comes between them with a muffled cry.

They both still for a long moment. Jon opens his eyes to Tormund staring at him in awe.

"Gods, Jon," Tormund grunts as his thrusts become slower but still deep and strong. Jon gasps and pants through them, hands tugging on the red locks. Tormund kisses him, slow and sweet, till he too stills with a deep groan and Jon feels a hot rush filling him.

They lay like this, quiet, panting and sharing breaths for a long while. Jon feels indescribably content. Unbothered, caring only for the warmth of the embrace, only for the hot breath on his skin. Both his body and mind are feather light. He revels in the feeling. Part of him questions, why hadn't he done this years ago. But he knows why. Why it took him years to voice his feelings, why he needed to make sure they could make it-

"Get out of your head, my little crow," Tormund murmurs lightly, pulling out of him gently. Jon gasps, feeling so empty all of sudden. But it's replaced with warmth when Tormund pulls him into another kiss. They seem to not be able to get enough of those.

Jon feels absolutely loose and content. The idea that only yesterday he fought for his life seems unreal. If not for the wounds and bruises covering them, he could imagine it was but a dream.

"I meant it, I swear it, Jon Dawnbreaker. I'm gonna bring you North, real North, where iron chairs and southern titles mean nothing." The redhead whispers, tracing the hook-like scar on his chest lightly.

And Jon wants it, needs it. To get away. Away from politics and deceit. To go where the air is painfully clear and brisk. To make a place for himself.

"And you will, Tormund Giantsbane."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments highly appreciated 🥰


End file.
